


777 (the devil is unavailable, can I take your call?)

by noxstories



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Dark, Horcruxes, M/M, Time Travel AU, Unsettling Imagery, death (of minor characters), fairytales - Freeform, implied but not really cannibalism, it’s mentioned but not touched on, seven sins, triggers found in beginning note for each chapter!!, twisted fairytales
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23699677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxstories/pseuds/noxstories
Summary: “Did you know,” Tom said conversationally, his eyes still possessively fixed on the diadem between them, “that the original Peter Pan killed his Lost Boys?”Harry swallowed thickly.—Tom traps Harry in a glass tower of twisted fairy tales and seven sins. Harry is getting them both out, even if it kills them.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 70
Kudos: 223





	1. i. lust / never never land

**Author's Note:**

> Gonna be real, I have no clue what this is or where this inspiration came from. Will I finish this? I hope so. Is it guaranteed? Nope, because my stupid brain has the attention span of a four year old. In any case, enjoy some metaphorical, twisted Tomarry.

“Sleep with me, Harry.”

Harry stared incredulously at his sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, always rival and occasionally boyfriend Tom Riddle. “Huh?”

Tom had the nerve to look irritated with his ineloquence, rolling his eyes and turning round to face him. He always looked fetching in green, Harry thought, before scolding himself. If Tom caught wind of his thoughts, as he so often did, he’d never let him hear the end of it.

“You heard me,” he said, as if talking to a child. “I want you to sleep with me.”

Very, very fetching in green. Harry swallowed, flushed, and promptly scowled at the other. “Why?” He asked suspiciously. “Who have you killed?”

“Why, he asks, as if we’re not boyfriends,” Tom groused to the sky, looking decidedly long suffering. “Because you’re incredibly attractive and so am I, Harry, and looking at you any longer without acting on my desires might just make me go and kill someone.”

“Good to know you’re as patient as ever.”

“Golden boy, you don’t even know.”

The sky above them was a dark, swirling storm of colours. Blues and greens and golds and silvers and- Where were they? Harry’s half playful frown turned confused, suspicious. “Tom?” He asked, slowly. “This isn’t Hogwarts.”

There was a silence, and when Harry turned back to his boyfriend, he looked increasingly disinterested, which only served to make Harry more certain something was amiss. “It’s another part of the Forbidden Forest from the clearing I showed you last week,” he said, after a beat. “Don’t look so paranoid, hero. Come here and let me see that pretty face of yours.”

The Forbidden Forest. Well, it at least made sense. Harry tried not to spend too much time in there, a healthy dose of self preservation he usually lacked, but Tom, being odd and out of his mind, adored it. Probably the minute Gryffindor in him, Harry often thought sourly, whenever Tom dragged him out to explore. Either that, or his delusions of immortality. 

A small burning ball of light crashed into his arm and made him yelp. Picking it up, Harry examined it with a wince - it felt like looking into the sun - and found, to his surprise, it was a fairy, with little wings and everything. It looked like it was dying; its limbs bent at awkward angles, its blonde hair matted with blood. He felt sick. A fairy…...

Well, a fairy, if fairies had jagged teeth and black eyes and bled oozing tree sap. His eyes darted to Tom, who was looking increasingly more disinterested with each passing second. Realising he was going to get no answers from him, instead Harry’s gaze scanned the area they sat in. A clearing next to a ring of mushrooms, looking for all the world like it could very well be the Forbidden Forest. A group of fairies, much the same as the dying one in his hands, But the forest didn’t have fairies in it. Hagrid had told him in his first year. Harry trusted Hagrid with his life, and certainly more than Tom now.

“This is not the Forbidden Forest.”

Tom smiled at him, and only then was it that he noticed how sharp the other boy was - his teeth, his eyes, his face, his body. Tom was sharp usually, but never so….. Inhuman. “No,” he said eventually, “it’s not. What gave it away?”

Harry tensed, and moved back. Something was awfully wrong here. If not the Forbidden Forest, then where had Tom brought him? 

“The fairies,” he returned evenly, not letting any of his panic or distrust show in his voice. “Hagrid told me all the creatures that live in this forest when I was in first year in my own timeline. Fairies wasn’t one of them.”

Tom sighed, looking for all the world like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Ah, the monster keeper,” he murmured, “he’s always been a thorn in my side. I should have known.”

“Tom,” Harry said, mouth dry. “Where are we?”

Because this place was wrong. He could feel it now. The trees pressed in on them, the sky was too stormy, and Tom - if this was Tom - was far different than he remembered. Harry’s Tom didn’t have black eyes. He didn’t smile with fanged teeth. And he certainly didn’t own a diadem, not in this timeline. Harry had made sure of it. So why was there one sitting nestled in his hair and making him look like a prince?

“Where indeed?” Tom mused. His hungry black eyes had fixed on Harry. He looked almost amused. This was probably a game to him, Harry realised, with a growing sense of dread. “Are you familiar with Muggle fairy tales, Harry?”

Bastard. Harry thought desperately, letting his eyes slip shut in thought. Tom would not attack him unarmed. His ego was too big for that. Muggle fairy tales, Muggle fairy tales….. What fairy tale took place in a forest with fairies and a fairy prince who looked like he ate humans for dessert? “Why are you doing this?” He asked, to buy himself some time to think.

He could feel Tom’s smile. “Entertainment,” the boy answered after a beat. The word felt rehearsed, and was not the answer Harry wanted, nor was it the truth. That much was evident. 

There was a clock ticking somewhere in the distance. Harry tried his best to block it out, grimacing at the monotony of it.

“Time’s running out, Harry,” Tom drawled, “so will you sleep with me, or will you figure this out?”

Merlin. No wonder Harry wanted to punch him sometimes. Mind racing through the numerous books he’d managed to steal from Dudley’s room as a child to devour at night in his cupboard, he landed on one, and paused.

“The boy who never grew up,” he said, aloud, and when Tom didn’t reply, he opened his eyes to see the other appraising him with a cold gleam in his eyes, “very fitting. How long did it take you to think of that one?”

Tom smiled; a mirthless thing. “Well done, little Gryffindor. Seems there’s brains behind the beauty after all.”

With pale hands, he plucked the diadem from his hair, studying it in some scrutiny for a moment. Harry half wanted to hold his breath, drink in the sight in front of him forever. Because despite all his faults - and there were many - Tom was a creature of exquisite beauty. He always had been. 

“Did you know,” Tom said conversationally, his eyes still possessively fixated on the diadem between them both, “that the original Peter Pan killed his Lost Boys?”

Harry swallowed thickly.

“So what are you, Harry?” The other continued, dark eyes finally lifting to meet Harry’s own. “A Lost Boy, or Wendy?”

Harry didn’t dare speak for a moment. His throat was too tight. When he did speak, it was tight and painful.

“I fought against you once,” he told Tom quietly. “I dare say that makes me Hook.”

Tom digested this information with grace, silent for a long time. When Harry thought maybe he’d angered the other, Tom blinked, and smiled widely. There was something unsettling about the charm of it all. The fairies had stopped fluttering about, he noticed dimly, and instead circled them with predatory airs.

“I dare say it does.” Tom agreed, almost pleasantly. “And every pirate needs his stolen treasure. But is it truly stolen if it was willingly parted with?”

And before Harry could speak, the diadem was in his hands, a lot heavier than he expected. The first real thing in this fantasy Neverland, he realised. Clutching it tightly, he glanced back up at Tom, wordless.

“You’re not Tom,” he stated, and when he said it out loud, only then did he realise how true it was. “You’re not real at all, and you’re not Tom. Are you?”

“Run off, pirate,” the Thing in front of him replied, turning away. Already, there was a glint of red in his eyes that made Harry clamber to his feet, “before the crocodile comes. I don’t want you to lose this little game so easily.”

_Game…?_

The ticking in the distance had gotten closer. Harry recalled, with some horror, that the crocodile in Peter Pan had swallowed a clock to make it tick. “Tom,” he murmured, stepping back once, then twice, “what are you playing?”

Tom didn’t answer, somehow already lost in the trees and fairies. The scene around him was crumbling, falling apart, but when he turned around, there was a glimmer of light in the distance. Harry gazed between it and Thing-Tom’s departure for a long desperate second, diadem tight in his grasp, before he did what he did best.

He ran toward the light.


	2. ii. sloth / cinders and ash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the chapters are very roughly planned, so good news!! I’ll probably continue this until the end!! I don’t wanna jinx myself but I hope I will anyway. This has been fun...
> 
> As with all my work, this is unedited and unbeta-d, so if there’s mistakes, just kill me. I apologise in advance.
> 
> This week on ‘Tom is an asshole who can’t deal with his problems like a normal person’, he traps Harry in a nightmarish Cinderella Scene! Enjoy! Kudos and comments/feedback always appreciated uwu!
> 
> What awful fairytale do you think will come next?

And suddenly, they were dancing. Harry’s eyes went wide as he was spun round, gazing into the eyes of none other than Tom Riddle, his sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, always rival and occasional concern, the latter of which he definitely was at that moment. Tom was perfectly able to take care of himself - whether or not he always did so was another matter. Right then, with his eyes, Harry wondered if Tom had slept at all the past few nights.

If it had only been a few nights since then - and Harry wasn’t so sure it was. Things felt timeless in this fantasy ballroom, with the lights too bright and the music too loud and the other faces whirling around them were too close. Tom’s eyes were fiercely protective - possessive would be a better word - as they spun in endless circles on the neverending dancefloor, boring directly into Harry’s own.

“You made it,” Tom mused, delicately. He was louder than the music without raising his voice. “I knew you would.” 

Harry let them spin for a moment in silence. “What is this?”

Tom’s lips curled into a slow smile. So pretty, for a boy who bared his teeth like knives. “A ball,” he answered, in that infuriating drawl, “fit for a princess.”

Ah, Cinderella. That explained the ballroom setting then. Frowning - Tom better not be calling  _ him  _ the princess - Harry attempted to gather the reasoning behind the other boy’s actions. “Why are you doing this?” He asked, having to raise his voice over the music. “Tell me the truth.”

And the answer came back, but not from the Tom in front of him. 

“Because I can,” another Tom purred in his ear, and whirled him effortlessly away from the first Tom. Gaping in surprise, Harry could do little more than squeak as the new Tom spun him, a devious look on his face. “Because you look so delectable when you’re saving the day.”

Harry stammered, and Tom had the nerve to smile at him. “Riddle,” Harry protested, “if you’re going to ask me to sleep with you again—”

“That wasn’t me,” the boy drawled, “and the last room was lust, not this one. Unfortunately, you lost your chance.”

As if  _ that _ made any sense. The music was too loud for him to think properly, so Harry glanced from Tom’s face to the rest of the room, and paled. They were all Tom. Every other person in the room, all the hundreds of couples dancing effortlessly like puppets on a string, they were all Tom. Merlin’s beard, why didn’t he ever want to play normal games, like Monopoly? 

“This is Cinderella,” Harry told the other, who smiled larger than ever, “and you’re not real.”

Tom shrugged nonchalantly, spinning him away, and Harry would have lost his balance if another Tom hadn’t caught him. This one was dressed in slightly darker grey, and he looked just as dashing as the Tom before, who had already disappeared into the crowds. 

This Tom looked less tired, and more malicious. “Is anything real?” He asked, and Harry’s heart lurched. 

“I’m not in the mood for philosophical questions of life, thanks.”

“Funny. You never are.”

And so it began — a perpetual cycle of dancing and being passed about the multitude of Toms that existed in this room. All of them moss different shades of grey, with Harry being the only one in white. There was something oddly sinister about the whole thing: maybe it was the doll-like aesthetic of the multiples of his boyfriend, or the way the music was slowly distorting around them, or that even though the Toms asked him if he needed a break, he knew doing so would be game over. 

_ I’d rather dance with you _ , he’d said sweetly to the fourth Riddle, even as his feet began to hurt from dancing for so long. 

He’d forced a bright smile at the eleventh.  _ I don’t plan to stop until I drop, _ he’d told him through a gritted teeth smile, and that Tom had smirked and whirled him away. 

_ Give up _ , the twenty eighth Tom had snarled at him, and Harry had snarled right back.  _ Give up and lose the game. _

Harry had wanted to laugh, would have if he hadn’t been so exhausted. He had never caved to Tom Riddle’s desires. It was funny he seemed to think he’d do so now. 

There was a Tom a little different from the others that was always just too far away, the only one who hadn’t danced with him. At least, it seemed like it — he’d lost track of who he’d danced with and who he had left. The different Tom wore all black and his hair was just so slightly mussed and the golden locket around his neck caught Harry’s attention. 

Slytherin’s locket.  _ That _ was the real Tom. Glancing up to his partner — a bored Tom, dressed in dark grey who had been ruthlessly toying with Harry’s stumbling steps for too long — Harry caught his gaze urgently. 

“Help me,” he murmured, “I want to help.”

But Tom gave him a droll, unimpressed look, and sent him into the arms of another. This Tom had a feverish glimmer in his eyes, that almost seemed to flicker red. 

“Tom,” Harry said again helplessly, feet on fire from how long they’d been dancing, “I don’t understand.”

“Good,” this Tom smiled, and the dancing began again. 

This time, however, Harry had a goal in mind. Eyes fixated on the Tom with the golden locket, ever so slowly he began to inch his way closer, barely feeling the exhaustion anymore now that he had something to focus on. Instead of allowing the others in the room to push him between them, Harry dictated which one he was spun to; much to the Riddles’ approval, from the gleams of it in their eyes. 

At last, he made his way to Tom, the real Tom. Or, as real as anything in this place could be. Heart pounding, breathless and tired, Harry took his hand wordlessly, meeting his eyes. 

This Tom didn’t have an expression on his face like the others. He wasn’t bored or manic or cruel or mocking. If anything, maybe, Harry thought he might see the shadow of regret in his eyes. But that was all. 

“How long are you going to keep this up?” Harry asked quietly. The music was too distorted to call music anymore, but just as loud. Was he even audible over it anymore. 

Tom spoke just as quietly. “As long as I want to.”

“That’s not an answer at all,” Harry protested, but at the look Tom gave him — indecipherable as always — he lapsed into silence. And their dance began. 

This dance was different. It was not a game, it was not a power play. It was simply a dance, and though Harry was exhausted, he felt light with Tom. They spun and moved as one, and for the first time in the hours he’d been there, he was not a puppet on strings. They were equals. The dance was over quicker than he expected, and Harry found himself oddly disappointed. 

And then he heard the music come to a screeching, painful stop. The other Toms in the room had disappeared, leaving only one left. His. It was then that Harry noticed he himself was dressed in blinding white. 

Black and white. Tom always had been one for symbolism. Harry just wished he didn’t understand it. 

“Is the clock going to turn twelve?” He asked, just to break the silence. 

Tom’s lips threatened to smile. “Very astute,” he replied, and his voice echoed around the empty hall. “Reach the door before midnight, little lion. You might not like what you find otherwise.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t like playing your games.” 

“This is not a game.” Tom reached up, and removed the locket from his own neck. With a moment of hesitance, he slipped it over Harry’s head to rest around his neck instead. “You’ll figure it out eventually. You’re smarter than you pretend.”

And the clock began to chime. Tom let him go, stepping back with an air of finality.  _ One _ . 

A door appeared in the far wall of the ballroom, wooden and entirely different from the rest of the place.  _ Two _ . 

“Tom, tell me what’s going on,” Harry told him firmly, and his heart sank at Tom’s inscrutable expression.  _ Three _ . The clock sounded angrier. 

_ Four _ . “Don’t you remember what happened to Cinderella when the clock struck twelve?” Tom asked him. “She turned into a pumpkin.”

That wasn’t the story at all, the bastard. Harry didn’t have any qualms as to the threat. Tom  _ would _ turn him into a pumpkin if he thought it was well deserved.  _ Five. _

So he began to run, and when he did, the clock’s chimes got faster. 

_ Six, seven, eight _ . Legs aching, feet burning, Harry ran for the door, one hand clenched around the locket. The diadem on his head hadn’t fallen off, surprisingly. Almost there. So nearly almost there. 

Stumbling as he reached the door, Harry dared to turn back to look at the ballroom. The music had started up again, just as haunting as before, and to his horror, the other Toms had appeared again. He couldn’t even see the real Tom anymore — or what he’d assumed to be the real Tom.  _ Nine, ten.  _

It was then that he realised Tom had probably lied. If he didn’t escape, he wouldn’t turn into a pumpkin. He’d be stuck in the hall forever and ever, unable to escape and unable to take a break.  _ Eleven _ . 

Harry threw open the door, and shut it behind him when he was through it. He was in pitch dark, unable to see what was ahead of him, and what had been behind. For a terrifying moment, he was half convinced he’d failed the test. And then he heard the clock chime one last time. 

_ Twelve _ . 

The lights turned on, and he was in an oven.


	3. iii. gluttony / oven baked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry follows a trail of cake from a cabin in the woods to a clearing to find the Horcrux. Tom (and the woods) watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!! So I’m continuing this it seems!!! I’ve been obsessing over this for the past few days and want to drill it out while this motivation lasts. And, no promises, I might actually continue the other fics I’m in the middle of?? Specifically the Sanders Sides ones?? Especially the Choose Your Own Adventure one??? I just. Love the concept dhsksjdkdj 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter!! There’s references to cannibalism in this chapter so watch out for this, though this Tom is not real so he isn’t actually eating anyone, don’t worry. But yeah, TRIGGER WARNING for cannibalism, blood, and general Tom-typical creepiness!!
> 
> Enjoy!

“Tom,” Harry said, ever patient, once he’d crawled out from the oven and hit his head approximately three times, “what the everloving _fuck_.”

Tom had the nerve to look mildly affronted himself. “I never claimed to be creative,” he replied, as if that was the issue, and not that Harry had been forced to crawl out of an oven to speak with his sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, and always nuisance boyfriend. “I suppose you can guess this story easily.”

Harry scowled. “Hansel and Gretel.” It was simple; if it hadn’t been glaringly obvious crawling out of an oven - that thankfully hadn’t been turned on - then the sickeningly sweet smell of pies and pastries around them made it so. “Fuck you.”

“Temper, temper,” Tom said chidingly, a mocking note in his voice, already turning away from him, “this isn’t even the wrath section.”

Harry caught his shoulder and spun him round roughly to face him, eyes hot. His feet burned with the pain of dancing in the other room and he was hungry for the sweet smelling foods around him and he was sick of Tom’s mind games. More than anything, he wanted a straight answer. For once. “Tom,” he said, and tried desperately to keep a hold of his temper. Tom was volatile at the best of times, and from the sheer act of trapping them both in whatever cycle of hell this was, he could tell this was not a _best_ _time_ for Tom. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Tom looked decidedly unmoved by the effort, and stepped back. Harry stepped forwards, expecting to be met with resistance, but instead, the other boy shoved something into his hands. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a bit. 

“Cake,” he said, dumbly. Tom rolled his eyes.

“This one’s simple,” he told Harry, in that infuriating drawl of his. Harry was too busy deciding against eating the cake to figure out if he wanted to punch him or kiss him. “Follow the breadcrumbs - or cake slices, in this instance - and find your trophy.” A thin lipped smile ghosted his face. “Or stay lost in the woods forever. It’s your choice.”

Harry swore. Damn Tom and his stupid games, damn his _simple lessons_ , and damn him for not being able to communicate through any way other than riddles.

Damn Riddle.

“You’re an ass,” he told Tom pleasantly, who was already walking out of the little cabin they were in. In the opposite direction, Harry spotted a slice of cake identical to the one in his hands. “I’m going to kill you for this.”

Even from inside the cabin while Tom was outside, he could hear his words. “Have you already forgotten?” He called back. “I’m not him.”

Harry had yet to fully figure out what these Not-Toms were. Were they from the Horcruxes? Projections? Or were they shades that Tom himself had drawn from his own magic to trap Harry in this game? Whatever they were, Harry knew this one was right; they weren’t Tom. Frustration bubbling, he dropped the cake on the floor, and hurried out of the cabin to fetch the other instead.

“Tell the real Tom that he’s an ass and I’m going to kill him for this,” he snapped at the Not Tom, and picked up the cake. Another appeared, ten yards ahead of him, The game, as Tom said, was simple. The question was if Harry could outlast it.

Delving deeper into the forest in search of more cake - and answers - Harry squinted into the trees, wishing, not for the first time, that he’d taken Tom up on his offer to fix his eyesight. He’d asked in their first few weeks of meeting, a dangerous gleam in his eye, and Harry had decided very firmly against having Tom’s magic (that already disliked him) meddling with his vision. He half wished his eyesight was better now; if only to see if it was his vision messing with him, or if the trees really were stretching out so far into the distance. The forest was dark and unknowing. All that was in front of him were more trees, eerie silence, and slices of cake on the ground. The light above him illuminating a dim path was not, as he’d first thought, the moon, but an eye. A wide, unblinking eye in the dark sky. It looked like it was crying blood.

Harry swallowed, internally cursed Tom, and kept going.

At long last, he arrived in a clearing, not unlike the one he’d initially been in with Tom. It was dark — far darker than it had been before, and Harry admitted that his skin was crawling. Eyes watched him from the forêt, blood red and dangerous, waiting for him to slip up so they could devour him….. But he didn’t. As good as the cakes smelled, he refused to eat them. They had been on the ground, he told himself in order to ignore his own temptation. They were probably disgusting, knowing Tom, who he was certain relied on magic far too much to know how to bake a cake. 

In the middle of the clearing — he was ignoring the sudden dead silence as best he could, if he didn’t call attention to it then nothing was wrong — sat an empty cake platter. On the cake platter sat a familiar goblet. Harry’s mouth ran dry. Hufflepuff’s goblet. 

“You’re always so dramatic,” he muttered aloud, wishing Tom was there so he could complain to him. Stifling his nerves at the thought of walking further into the clearing, which looked suspiciously like an arena, Harry took a deep breath, and strode towards the cup. The slice of cake in his hands disappeared as he did so. 

The goblet was cold when he picked it up, and full to the brim of red wine. Wrinkling his nose at the strong scent, Harry promptly poured it out on the ground, taking a step back to avoid getting it on his shoes. He only needed the goblet, after all. Not the wine, as much as this whole ordeal would be far more endurable if he was tipsy. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d done the right thing or the wrong when the wine kept spreading long after it should have stopped. Yelping in surprise, Harry moved back further as the wine inched its way towards him, beginning to inhabit a majority of the clearing. Pushed back further and further — there was an odd swirl beginning in the centre of the pool of wine that he was certain he didn’t want to be dragged into — he kept his eyes fixed on the wine, wand in hand and ready for anything that happened. 

Except, naturally, from knocking into something behind him. 

Or rather, someone, for when Harry turned round rapidly to look, it was the Tom from before with a hungry glint in his eyes. In one hand he held a goblet, identical to the one Harry clutched. In the other, he held a bone of meat. 

“Uh,” was all Harry could say incoherently, alarm and panic instantly making him back up. Before he could move back further, Tom reached and grabbed his collar tightly, refusing to let him go. Harry scrawled, off balance and off guard, for stability. “Tom—”

“Didn’t you once tell me that my future self ate people?” Tom purred sweetly. Harry felt sick. 

“I said there were rumours. I never claimed he did,” he said numbly, eyes wide. Tom smiled and took a sip from the goblet. A trickle of blood ran down his mouth. “This isn’t real.”

“But it feels real,” Tom replied. Harry supposed he couldn’t argue with that — this all felt horribly, horribly real. “You’ve gone pale, little hero. Not quite what you expected?”

Harry set his jaw. “Why are you doing this?” He demanded, knocking Tom’s hand away from his collar. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. 

“You like a challenge,” Tom murmured, eyes boring into Harry’s own. “As do I.”

Despite the truth in the answer, something still felt wrong. Harry’s fists clenched, and that was when he realised the goblet in his hands had disappeared. 

“Oh, dear,” Tom continued, and there was something riddling his voice that made Harry glance up in alarm. More blood trickled down his boyfriend’s lips. “Looks like you’re out of time. And look at that. No goblet. You’re losing your touch, Gryffindor.”

And then he advanced, eyes darkening. Harry stumbled back, searching frantically in his mind for what to do. Tom was quick, quicker than he should be when wading through red wine up to their knees by this point, and Harry had no idea what to do. There was only one clear course of action. 

He grabbed Tom’s goblet, just as Tom shoved him backwards. Losing his balance, hands wrapped tightly around the goblet that spilled blood all over him, Harry fell into the red sea surrounding them, unable to keep his footing. As soon as his head was submerged, everything grew dark. 

The wine, which had been only to their knees prior, sucked him in, pulling him down and down and down — or was it up? It was impossible to tell. There was no way he could open his eyes to see for himself — it was too dark and the pressure made it too dangerous. All he could do was grip the goblet tightly in his hand, ignore the burning of the locket around his neck, and pray he didn’t lose the diadem as he fought his way free of the whirlpool he was stuck in. 

His lungs were beginning to burn. How long had he been under now? Two minutes? Three? Dizzy and cold, Harry wondered distantly if Tom had meant for him to die here. What would happen if he did? Was that it? Was there no coming back from this? Tom was just going to let him die here, in this never ending pool, and that was the end?

 _No_. Harry reminded himself fiercely of the real Tom. He didn’t trust the Fake Toms in the slightest, but he at least trusted his Tom enough that he wouldn’t let him die here. There was no way it would happen. He just had to trust him. 

Taking a moment to steel himself, Harry stopped fighting the currents, and released a breath. 

The next breath he took in, he was lying on the grass, blood from the goblet sticky on his face; and Tom _Fucking_ Riddle himself stood over him holding a basket and a red cape. 

As soon as Harry could stand on shaky legs, the first thing he did was punch him in the face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments!! You’re all so sweet and it means the world to me. Comments inspire me to keep going and continue writing so they’re very much appreciated, along with the kudos!!! Thank y’all 👉👈
> 
> Any guesses as to the next sin and tale to be explored?


	4. iv. wrath / little red, little red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets trapped in a cabin with a snake and two bodies. Finally, he gets some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to add! I don’t really have an excuse other than that I briefly lost motivation for writing and for everything in general, but I’m back now and plan to upload daily again!
> 
> TW in this chapter for blood, unsettling imagery, death, Tom being an asshole, snakes and just general creepiness.

“Dare I ask,” Tom said mildly, with a dangerous look in his eyes, “what my other selves have done for me to warrant such abuse?”

Taking ragged breath after ragged breath and still trying to convince himself he was no longer being drowned in a sea of red wine, Harry stayed silent, and glared at Tom; his sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, always nuisance and always threat. The latter of which he most certainly was right now. He very much doubted Tom would kill him - very much doubted he’d be able to, even if he tried (and he had tried so hard in the beginning) - but that didn’t mean Tom wouldn’t hurt him.

Tom had hurt him before. And he had hurt him back. It was something in their relationship that just  _ was _ . Duels and power-plays where one of them or both ended hexed or dying were second nature at this point. But Harry just didn’t know the rules of this fantasyland Tom had trapped him in. Did they still apply? Or had they changed?

“I see,” Tom murmured delicately, as if he’d learned something about Harry in the silence of the room. “Fascinating. Well-”

“You know.” Harry’s voice shook for a moment, not out of upset, but anger. He did his best to steady it. “You know exactly what they did. Shut up and tell me how to get out of this.”

Tom took a moment to study him, and from the hint of satisfaction in his dark eyes, Harry got the sinking feeling he was falling right into Tom’s traps. “Play the game,” he told him, a note of ice cold glass slipping into his voice. Harry wanted to shatter it. “Follow the fairytale. Aren’t you having fun? I know I am.”

“You’re  _ not, _ ” Harry replied, sheer frustration making him louder. “I know you, Tom. You wouldn’t be playing with me like this if you wanted entertainment.”

Tom scrutinised him. “ _ Do _ you know me?” He asked eventually. There was genuine curiosity with the question, and Harry stared at him.

“What sort of question is that?” 

Tom, as ever, chose to be an asshole and ignore him, and instead he dropped his basket on the ground between them. “This is yours,” he drawled, arching an eyebrow in amusement at Harry’s grouchy curiosity. “It’s empty, but for the purpose of the tale, Little Red, we’ll pretend it’s food for your dear parents who live in this cabin. Simple.”

_ Little Red…… _ . Oh, for Merlin’s sake……. Clenching his jaw and trying very hard not to punch Tom again (the last time he had he’d gone into a terrible sulk and had cursed half of their class out of sheer annoyance), Harry picked up the basket and glared hotly at Tom. “If there’s a wolf in the cabin, I’m going to kill you,” he told him venomously, and Tom smirked. 

“Temper, temper.” The Slytherin took a step back, clean, tidy, detached. Harry wanted to throttle him. “Try not to lose your head. In any sense of the word. I prefer you with your pretty little face intact.”

And with that, Tom was gone. Harry blinked, unsettled by the lack of the other’s presence in the room, that was incredibly claustrophobic, now that he was alone. The walls, wooden and unkind, pressed in on him, watching him from every angle and leaving him painfully exposed. The door to the next room felt impossibly far away. There was no floor to the cabin — only grass, damp with morning dew, and looking decidedly trampled on. Everything was silent. Not a single noise echoed from within. It was still. Too still. And that was when Harry remembered Tom’s words: “ _ we’ll pretend it’s food for your dear parents….” _

His parents……. Heart climbing up his throat in anxiety, Harry wondered if Tom would be cruel enough to conjure up an image of his parents, and then scolded himself. He was being stupid. 

Of course Tom was cruel enough to do such a thing. Harry didn’t doubt him for a moment. 

And that was when the screaming shouted, and Harry jumped into action. 

When he started to move, that when the scene sprung to life, as he’d feared it might. The grass grew stalks which in turn grew thorns, scratching Harry’s legs into lightning scars over and over again and leaving blood trickling unpleasantly time the ground as he ran. Gaudy, off key masquerade music began to play, horrifically dark as the lights flickered. He did his best to ignore it. None of that mattered. Because his parents needed his  _ help _ even if they were just illusions and he had to focus on them and Gryffindor’s sword hung on the doorway, painfully out of reach unless he ran. He ached for the comfort of a weapon. Especially one so familiar. 

The whispers started up as soon as he jumped from the prickling grass to the doorframe, panting heavily and cracking the sword in both hands. It was strangely heavy for a world that was supposed to be fiction. The whispers were Tom’s, Voldemort’s, his own, he couldn’t differentiate them, and he wasn’t so sure it was possible to. Clenching his eyes shut hard — the screaming was practically drowned out by the music and whispers — Harry tried to listen to what they were saying. He got mixed messages all round. 

_ Kill the spare— _

_ Stand aside, foolish girl, stand aside— _

_ The Boy Who Lived— _

_ There is only power, and those too weak to seek it— _

_ Avada Kedavra— _

_ I can speak to snakes too. Is that normal for someone like me?— _

_ Bow to death, Harry— _

_ I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them  _ **_hurt_ ** .

One whisper in particular stood out, as if taunting him. It felt like Tom was whispering it in his ear, standing right behind him—

_ Voldemort is my past, present, and future _ .

The moment Harry opened the door with urgency, the screaming and whispering stopped. All that remained was one mocking bar of music, that trickled into nothingness when Harry’s eyes focused enough in the dark to see the dead bodies of his parents. 

Nausea hit him like he’d been punched, and he stumbled over to them, the sword falling from his hands numbly. James and Lily Potter lay crumpled on the floor, looking for all the world like they might be sleeping if not for the horrified looks on their faces and the unnatural positions of their bodies. Mumbling a stricken  _ lumos _ , the room lit up enough that he could see the taunting present their killer had left behind. 

A familiar looking snake, coiled neatly around itself and hissing softly, in warning or satisfaction he could not tell at first. Parchment paper lay beside her, that Harry snatched without a care about the snake. She wouldn’t attack: she was left to mock him, not hurt him. The parchment had a date on it: _ Halloween, 1981 _ . As soon as he’d read it, it burst into flames in his hands and burned until there was nothing but ash. 

Faintly in the distance, he heard a wolf howl. It sounded hungry. 

What was Tom’s game? He’d gone too far this time; Harry could barely breathe. The stench of blood was thick in the air and the desire to scream or cry or maybe destroy something was heavy on his shoulders. He wanted to hurt Tom. He wanted him dead. 

“Why are you doing this?” Harry breathed, unable to be louder for fear he’d yell and yell until he couldn’t. And the answer came back to him, not from Tom, but from the snake.  _ Nagini. _

_ Because he needs you to learn _ .

Harry’s anger grew and he clenched the sword tighter in his grip, hard enough that his knuckles began to turn white. “If he needs me to learn, then he can teach me his goddamn self,” he snarled, and in one smooth motion, lifted Gryffindor’s sword above his head, ready to bring down on Nagini’s head. It was the least Tom deserved, to lose this snake. She was a fake, anyway — Harry could tell that because Tom had plucked her straight from Harry’s nightmare he’d shared with him in the Pensieve when he’d been shaken up and unable to sleep. The real Nagini was a monster: huge and crushing and bloodthirsty, with a gleam of darkness from being a Horcrux lurking in her gaze. This one was tame in comparison, hardly corporeal, barely a threat. He raised the sword higher, tightening his jaw, until he stopped. 

_ Don’t lose your head _ . That was what Tom had sneered at him before, a glitter of unbidden warning in his eyes. Wasn’t that exactly what he was doing now? Wouldn’t this be playing directly into Tom’s hands? If he was to kill Nagini... Then everything would be over. All of this would be for nothing. Harry didn’t know how he knew that, but every instinct in him screamed at him to kill her, while his heart told him to drop the sword.

His parents’ bodies were in his line of vision, too painfully raw a wound to look at. They deserved revenge! Tom had  _ killed _ them! But they’d been dead a long time. Harry had already had time to mourn. And, he reminded himself reluctantly, Tom was not Voldemort. He hadn’t killed his parents. Not yet. And if Harry managed to prevent him from becoming Voldemort, he never would. 

He let out a breath; the sword went back to his side. Nagini and he made eye contact, long, in a language he hadn’t realised he knew. 

“Fuck your master,” Harry told her, before lifting her up and gingerly wrapping her around his neck. She was silent for a moment, and, panicking, Harry wondered if he’d made the wrong voice, before she hissed a  _ thank you _ and curled around his neck loosely. It was almost comforting. Gryffindor’s sword disappeared from his hand. The bodies of his parents flickered out of existence. It was just him and Nagini. 

“What’s happening?” He asked her softly, in Parseltongue, in the hopes he might finally get some answers. 

She hissed in contemplation.  _ He is testing you _ , she replied after a moment.  _ But you are winning. _

A shudder shook the cabin then, and Harry stumbled. “Then why is he angry?”

_ You are not supposed to win. This will change everything. _

“It doesn’t feel like winning.” Another shudder of the cabin. He winced reflectively. “Why is he doing this?”

_ Has he not told you _ ? Nagini asked, but she sounded further away now. 

“No. Not the truth, anyway.”

Nagini slithered until she could face him, unblinking eyes fixating on him. Harry tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt.  _ Because he cannot understand. _

“What?”

And before he could question anymore, the walls of the cabin burst down in a howl of wind and fury, leaving Harry clinging desperately to Nagini as he dropped to his knees. He circled up tight against the whirlwind, holding Nagini and the diadem, shielding the locket and goblet, and praying to whatever god was out there — Tom, he supposed — that he could suffer through the winds. 

Or rather, Tom’s wrath, because the winds half sounded like screaming, and the lightning like curses, and when they blew over, everything was still. Everything was silent. Harry uncurled from the ball he’d been in, only half opening his eyes. The first thing he saw were the puppets of the Dursleys staring at him with black button eyes.

The second was that Nagini’s mouth was sewn shut: a clear warning. 

Tom wasn’t going to let anyone spoil his game. He was in control, and Harry had to play until the bitter end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed! This chapter was one I got stuck with but ultimately came to enjoy writing it, and it’s set a lot of things up for the ending — that I’ve yet to fully plan, but this chapter helped me realise some things!
> 
> We’re almost halfway through, and the Dursleys are up next! Creepy, puppet versions of them anyway. What sin or Horcrux do you think is next? And why is Tom doing this? Any ideas?
> 
> Thanks for reading, feel free to leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!! 😄


	5. v. greed / mirror, mirror, on the wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds himself at the Dursley house, and also finds a boy in a mirror with a ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through this fic!! I’m surprised, honestly, usually I never have the dedication to stick through it. I’m very proud of myself so far!
> 
> Tom’s plan is slowly unravelling as things go on, and Harry is slowly beginning to understand the enigma that he is. I still have no idea how the ending will go, but that’s the fun of it!!
> 
> TW — the Dursleys, but I think that’s all!
> 
> Enjoy!

The Dursleys were unsurprisingly unhappy to see him. That was just fine with Harry. He wasn’t exactly pleased to see them either.

“You’ve been slacking off your duties, boy,” Uncle Vernon spat, black button eyes gleaming unpleasantly at him. For an unsettling moment, they almost looked like Tom’s. Harry tried to shrug that off. Tom didn’t have black eyes - he’d come to realise only weeks before that his eyes were actually a dark grey, stormy and cruel and utterly delightful when he was in a good mood. Though whenever Tom was in a good mood, it often was an indicator that Harry’s mood would sour instead - activities that put Tom in a good mood usually failed to do the same for Harry.

Was Tom happy now? He wondered. Was he in a cheerful mood, watching Harry struggle painfully through these trials, these tests? Tom had always loved to push him too far, loved making him crumble only to scoop him back into one piece. But then Harry considered Nagini’s words, as she sat so placidly around his neck now, apparently unnoticed by the Dursleys, and realised that Tom might not be having as much fun as he’d thought he’d be having.

Speaking of the Dursleys…. “Uncle Vernon?” Harry replied, as polite as he could. Despite Nagini posing no threat, and despite Vernon posing no threat to him, he couldn’t help but feel safer with the big snake over his shoulders. The Dursleys made him wary, but there was no use antagonising his Uncle - he knew from experience that it never went well. Having Nagini around at least made him feel a little stronger. A little safer. “What did I do?”

Uncle Vernon spluttered with rage, before Aunt Petunia — or at least a too tall, too thin, buttoned eye impression of her — sniffed and stepped forwards. Instinctively, Harry backed up. The elder Dursleys had never physically hurt him (he didn’t think they dared to, not to mention, they had Dudley to hit him instead) but that didn’t mean Harry liked being around them. He’d been kept in a cupboard by them for years, for Merlin’s sake! 

“The dishes are overflowing,” she snapped primly, but Harry could barely keep his eyes on her. What was he looking for? Something wasn’t right, and it felt impossible to know what. His eyes slid over his Aunt, Uncle, Dudley……. and then he realised. 

Tom wasn’t there. Why wasn’t Tom there? In every other test, the other boy had been there, with a sneer on his lips and advice to give. Although his presence had made him incredibly more punchable, it was unsettling that he wasn’t there now. Frowning, and taking a step back, Harry realised he was backed against a bedroom door, one that had HARRY painted across it in green letters in unmistakably Tom’s handwriting. Through every other anger he held towards the other boy, Harry had to smile. 

This was another sign that Tom wasn’t completely all-knowing and all-powerful. He’d never told Tom about the cupboard under the stairs. It was so cocky for Tom to assume the Dursleys had cared enough to give him a bedroom.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” he answered politely, and almost mindlessly, made his way through the fake-Dursley house to the kitchen. Everything seemed frighteningly normal — Harry would have preferred screams or whispers or blood lakes to the painful ordinary of this scene. The dishes were overflowing, the kitchen was silent save from the tick-tick-tick of the clock, and Harry sighed and got to work. 

As he washed plate after mug after bowl, he pondered Nagini’s words.  _ Because he cannot understand _ . What was it, Harry wondered, that Tom couldn’t understand? The fairy tales? Harry himself? Something else? It was times like those that he wished he knew Tom; though he knew him better than everyone else, it was always startlingly obvious that he could not keep up with Tom’s trains of thoughts and unpredictable mood swings. He often wondered how the Knights of Walpurgis managed it — Orion Black had once confided in him that the only way to deal with Tom was to expect the unexpected, and Tom had proved him right by giving Orion a mild case of food poisoning as punishment for spilling such a secret. 

Still, Harry searched for a pattern, a routine, some predictability. Whenever he found one answer, however, it was always littered with some sort of test and more questions. He had a feeling that whatever he discovered about Tom after this lesson would drown him in questions he had never thought of. Typical Slytherins. Harry thought fleetingly wistfully of Gryffindors — easy, incomplex, predictable. He missed Gryffindor. He missed  _ being _ a Gryffindor. 

And then Tom proved his unpredictability right again with Harry’s discovery of the Mirror of Erised underneath a greasy baking tray. 

It was the wrong shape, wrong size (Tom only knew about it from Harry’s insouciant explanation of his first year at Hogwarts in his own time, after all) but there was no mistaking the words scrawled across it: Mirror of Erised. His head spun as he lifted it up, careful not to knock any dishes to the ground — what was Tom’s game here?

Glancing behind him revealed nobody else in the room, so Harry tucked the Mirror under his arm, and retreated to the room marked as his own, closing the door behind him carefully. The room lit up as he did so, shadows dancing around him as he crossed to his bed and sat cross legged on it. Only then did he see the masses of  _ riches _ in the room. It almost put his vault at Gringotts in his own time to shame. Wide eyed and star struck, he found himself moving towards it in a dream, wanting, itching to touch it, to make himself rich and famous with it, he needed to touch it—

The realisation he was under a Compulsion Charm snapped him back to his senses, and Harry shut his eyes tightly. The desire waned, enough that he could stumble back to his bed and turn his back to it. Maybe Tom didn’t know him as well as he thought. Harry had never been one of riches or fame. More than anything, he craved normalcy. Tom should know that. Another slip up. Maybe he really didn’t understand.

Doing his best to ignore the pull from behind him of the jewels, all of them sparkling and desirable, Harry took out the mirror to stare into it with a frown. 

_ It shows you your heart’s desire _ , Dumbledore had once told him, and Harry idly wondered if it would be his parents that would appear again. Perhaps another token from Tom to get him out of this game faster: that was certainly a desire of his. Maybe his friends from his own time, maybe the few Knights of Walpurgis he’d grown fond of from this time, maybe a mixture of the two—

To his dismay, he found Tom staring back at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. He almost dropped the mirror. It was like a blow to the chest.

Merlin, what did it say about him that his heart’s desire was the boy who would grow up to murder his parents?

Not that Tom was Voldemort yet. Not that he would become Voldemort, if Harry had anything to say about it. 

“Magic mirror on the wall,” Tom mused from the mirror, “who’s the prettiest of them all?”

He looked just as surprised as Harry that he’d appeared, a fleeting human shock making him look more vulnerable than he’d seen in a while. 

Prettiest of them all….. Harry had to roll his eyes. So much for Tom being above such human vanity. “You’re not on the wall, though,” he pointed out helpfully, smirking just a little when Tom eyed him petulantly, “you’re on my bed.”

“Magic mirror on my bed,” Tom replied instantly, eyes glinting, “which Gryffindor do I want dead?”

Harry stuck his tongue out. 

“Did you just stick your tongue out at me? Like a child? How old are you?”

He refrained from answering that. Propping his chin up with one hand, Harry instead asked another pressing question. “Are you the real Tom?” Tom made a noise that could have been an agreement or the opposite. He received a scowl in response. “It’s an easy enough question.”

“It’s more complicated than you think,” Tom told him coolly, the humour dying from his face, “it’s also rather disconcerting to think of myself as a fake copy. Don’t be so offhand about it.”

Harry hadn’t realised the other boy was offended until that moment, and raised his eyebrows, suddenly feeling moderately guilty. “Sorry.”

Annoyance flickered over Tom’s face, and before Harry knew what was happening, an apple was flung from the mirror to his face. It bounced off his cheek mostly harmlessly, but not without a bruise. Harry yelped, scowling at Tom in indignation. “I said sorry!”

“I know you did.” Tom, on the other hand, did not look sorry one bit. “I don’t care. You should have expected apples at some point. This is  _ Snow White _ , after all.”

This was Snow White? Harry didn’t dare to look around the room, not with the riches still emanating their charm from behind him, but thinking back, he supposed it made sense. The dishes. The mirror. The recitation from Tom. And, of course, the apples. He swallowed thickly. 

“Is the item I’m supposed to find in there?” He questioned, gesturing to the riches behind him. Tom smiled thinly. 

“No. It’s right here.”

And he lifted his hand, to show a black, black ring, that Harry instantly reached out for. Tom drew his hand back quickly, a wary look crossing his face, before he chuckled in amusement. “You expect to get to it through a mirror?” He mocked. “Surely you know how mirrors work, Harry. Usually you can’t take things from inside them.”

It was Harry’s turn to smile, even as the shadows in the room grew darker and the urge to go to the jewels behind him increased in strength. 

“Shouldn’t have thrown an apple at me from it, then,” he told Tom, and promptly pushed his hand into the mirror. 

It was a curious experience. The moment of submersion made his hand feel wet, oozing, disgusting, but when he managed to grab Tom’s hand, it was evident his own hand was very much dry. In contrast, Tom’s hand felt almost transparent in his grip, like a ghost, and the flicker of unease on his face was enough to solidify this opinion. “You were supposed to have been enchanted by the jewels, in my defence, and you certainly weren’t supposed to see me as your heart’s desire,” Tom muttered sullenly. 

“Then why are you doing this, if you want me to fail?” Harry demanded, knowing before Tom answered that it would be another fake answer. 

It wasn’t. “Because I can.” Tom’s voice was cool, composed as always. “Because it’s my nature.”

…..Harry wasn’t certain that last part was true. He met the Slytherin’s eyes carefully. 

“Give me the ring.”

Tom shot him a carelessly sharp smile that pierced something vital in Harry’s chest. “I thought it was custom for lovers to put rings  _ on _ a partner, not take them off,” he mocked, but made no effort to stop Harry from taking it off. 

In return, Harry didn’t let go of his hand, shifting the mirror closer in desperation. Everything about this was wrong. What wasn’t he understanding about this? “Tom,” he murmured, a silent plead in his voice, “why can’t you just talk to me like a normal person? Why do you need to—”

_ Why do you need to test me all the time? _

Tom’s mocking smile dissipated instantly, and two black button eyes gleamed at him. Had they been there before, when Harry had asked if he was real? Of course this version of him wasn’t real. It was another duplicate, a fake, created as another test. “Normal is what you want,” he told Harry, words crisp. “Normal is nothing like what I want. How disappointing.”

Harry felt like he’d failed a part of this game, and consequently, felt the beginnings of understanding dawn on him. “Tom,” he began. “That’s not what I—”

“Disappointing, but not unexpected.” Tom cut him off smoothly, and suddenly, the room disappeared, leaving Harry trapped in crushing blackness, still holding Tom’s hand through the mirror. “Don’t let go, Evans. Or do you prefer Potter? I can never remember.”

Hadrian Evans. The name he’d desperately made up when asked for it on the spot. Harry wanted to cry out. What name did he prefer? What identity did he prefer? 

Did he really have to pick?

And then Tom was pulling him forwards, into the mirror, into his world, with Harry still desperately clutching the ring in his hand. 

Diadem. Locket. Goblet. Snake. And now ring. Five out of what Harry was certain would be seven. Seven was Tom’s favourite number — probably because he’d been told seven was the most magically lucky number. Over halfway, and only one minor failure. Determination bloomed in Harry’s chest as he landed with a crash on another floor, body aching and weary. He would get through this, one way or another, and he would get the truth from Tom. He wouldn’t rest until he did. 

A noise of amusement made him look up with a wince at the too-bright lighting overhead. Another Tom Riddle stood there, looking like he was royalty and smirking down at him. On his head was a crown, and in his hand was another.

“I know I’ve always wanted you at my feet, darling, but this wasn’t quite how I’m sure either of us imagined that happening.”

Harry could only swear. Of _course_ Tom had a royalty complex too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! Not very happy with the end, but the next few chapters are the ones I’m looking immensely forward to writing, so that’s fun!! They’ll be up as soon as I’ve written them. Deconstructing Tom like this is super fun, and will grow more fun as I continue now, so look forward to that too!!
> 
> Only two ‘fairytale’ chapters left!! Which sin or fairytale do you think will be next? In all honesty, I hadn’t heard of this tale until I looked it up, so this should be interesting!!
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed, leave a kudos and/or a comment if you wish !! :D


	6. vi. pride / robes, royalty, rags and ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which tom claims to be a king, but for the first time, harry sees through his games before he does.
> 
> tw: blood, mild body horror, bones, general Tom behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo boy, so this chapter took me so long to learn, I can't believe this! Sorry for the delay - I really struggled with this. As you can probably tell, I have never read this particular fairytale, and have been busy with other writing, so I'm going to blame that on my procrastination of this chapter! The next chapter will be uploaded soon, because I've enjoyed writing it, and hopefully will finish it today or tomorrow morning.  
> Anyway, please enjoy!! I had to add this chapter a different way, so if the appearance looks wonky, blame my laptop for refusing to work properly.  
> Don't forget to leave kudos and a comment if you wish!! :D

“I’ve never heard of a fairytale about a boy pretending to be king,” Harry bit out, as he scrambled to his feet, checking very quickly that he still had all of the items he’d gathered. Diadem. Locket. Goblet. Snake. Ring in his hand that he quickly slid onto his finger. He could feel Tom’s eyes dragging over him as he did so, curiosity mingling with amusement and, if Harry was correct, uneasiness. “You’re just making them up now.”

It had been a long time since he’d felt Tom’s uncertainty. Sensing this let him lift his eyes to meet the other’s squarely. What was this fake Tom thinking?

And it was fake — Harry could see that immediately. He was too oversaturated, trying to make up for the life that he lacked with too much colour and personality. His skin was too golden, eyes too dark, hair too curly. This Tom was the least convincing lookalike of them all: either that, or Harry was just growing to spot the differences more easily now as he got to understand the innermost workings of Tom Riddle’s mind: his sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, always uncertainty. 

And always boyfriend. Harry reminded himself of that as they unlocked eyes, as he began to casually search with his gaze around the room for something like the other items before. Tom was his……. Well, boyfriend was too easy a word, but Tom was his partner. His. And it was Harry’s job to save him. He was in no way obliged, but he wasn’t blind to his own complex about doing so. Neither was Tom. 

The Tom in front of him cleared his throat: an impatient sound. Harry’s attention snapped back to him quickly. 

“Storytelling was never my strong suite,” Tom told him, and from the moderate irritation in his voice, it sounded like he’d had to repeat it. “Put this on. Quickly.” The crown was thrust into Harry’s hands, and, too surprised to argue, he placed it on his head in mild confusion. What fairytale was this? Tom assessed it critically, before he smirked. “You always looked so pretty in red, little lion.” 

Harry hated that such words made him flush darkly. Even in such a horrible situation, Tom’s words still managed to fluster him. “You don’t look so bad yourself in green,” he returned, playing along, and the look of satisfaction in Tom’s eyes grew. Harry wasn’t lying. Tom looked, as always, beautiful — though still over saturated, the green and silver of his expensive outfit and the jewellery more than made up for it, and contrasted perfectly with one another. “Though you’re always wearing it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything other than green and black.”

Tom arched an eyebrow. “You wish to see me in Gryffindor colours?” He asked with a cunning smirk. The colour on Harry’s face burned darker than ever. 

“I said anything other than green and black,” he protested, but already, Tom’s robes had changed before his eyes into dark red and gold, even going so far as to have a mocking little lion in gold on the front of his shirt. He looked very good in Gryffindor colors, Harry thought distantly, but that wasn’t the reason he’d stepped back so sharply. 

For a flicker of a moment, between Tom’s clothes being green and red, the illusion had dropped, and he’d been saturated with blood and dark magic. 

Maybe it was a trick of the light, Harry wanted to convince himself, staring at Tom, who gazed back in expectation. The black of Tom’s veins had just been a shadow, maybe, and the blood had just been discolouring from the chandelier above them. 

Knowing Tom, though, it wasn’t a trick of the light, and Harry’s heart sank. He was so sick of blood.

“Well?” Tom prompted. It didn’t seem as if he’d noticed the reason for Harry’s sudden lack of playful chat. “Is this more to your standards, Gryffindor?”

“I think Ravenclaw colours would suit you better, if I’m honest,” Harry told him, keeping his voice carefully light. If Tom noticed anything amiss, he didn’t let on, only looking mildly bemused at the request. “All that intelligence has to show up in one way. Gryffindor just isn’t you.”

But Tom had a lot of daring and nerve to drag him to this place, where although he controlled the story, he did not control the outcome or Harry’s actions. Rather Gryffindor of a snake, Harry reflected, as Tom began to change his clothing again, the robes of an emperor switching from red to blue. But Harry caught the flicker of blood and dark magic, saw underneath the illusion, and this time, clung on to it. And when Tom gazed at him expectantly this time, Harry fought back the obvious sight he was supposed to see of riches and royalty, and peeled back the skin of the illusion to see what lay underneath. 

Tom’s face was skeletal. That was the first thing he noticed in sharp, acute horror — he looked far less like himself than ever before. Pale and drawn, the only hint of colour on his body was the black of his eyes and veins, that oozed dark magic and something else, something that wasn’t quite blood but that Harry was certain was just as important to the Tom in front of him……

Ink. He was only. The diary. Of course. Harry swallowed thickly. Tom didn’t seem to notice that the illusion had been peeled back for Harry, focusing instead on snapping his fingers and changing Harry’s own robes from red to green. “Much better,” he purred, stepping forwards, but Harry knew from gazing helplessly at Tom that he wasn’t wearing the robes he seemed to be wearing. 

Tom was wearing secondhand school robes, no different from Ron’s, no different from Ginny’s, save from the green and silver trim to show he was Slytherin rather than Gryffindor. They were just a tad too long for him, which would have been endearing if not for the ghastly sight of Tom himself: and the fact the robes were saturated with blood. Not his own blood either, Harry was willing to bet. And from the heaviness of his own robes, he knew with sickening clarity he was wearing the same. 

“How does Ravenclaw suit me?” Tom asked, his words curling with arrogance and pride. Pride. It had to be, because what of any of this was Harry supposed to be envious of? “I must say: you look much better in green than you ever did in red. Aren’t you glad the Sorting Hat put you in Slytherin with me?”

Glad wasn’t quite the term Harry would use. Swallowing thickly, he took another step back. Tom’s eyes gleamed. 

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Drop the illusion.” Harry’s voice didn’t shake. He was used to the games by now. And as unsettling as their real appearances were, it was better than being lied to. “I can see past it now.” And indeed he could. He could see that in this illusion, both of them were much younger: eleven or twelve. He could hear the rough edge of Cockney Tom got in his voice only when he drank, heavier than ever in his uncertain youth. And he could see the blood. Of course he could see the ink and blood.

Tom had the nerve to look confused. “Illusion?” He drawled, and stepped forwards, grabbing Harry’s wrist to stop him from getting away. “What are you rambling about now, Gryffindor?”

Was Tom…. being serious? One look at the perplexity written deep in his eyes told Harry that he was. “Can’t you see it?” He asked, quietly, and Tom scowled. 

“Don’t tell me you’re delusional now. Come now: I have other garments here too that would suit you. I had to work hard on this — Lestrange helped me pick out things that would suit you, and even taught me a spell to tame your ridiculously messy hair. Follow me.”

He tugged on Harry’s wrist, but Harry was anchored in place. The lights above them flickered, and Tom looked decidedly confused about the whole situation. And that was when Harry realised that Tom really had no idea what he was talking about.

If this room was for the sin of pride — and judging Tom’s attitude, it was — then Tom would never feign confusion for something he understood perfectly well. It wasn’t his style, unless he had something to gain from it. But what did he have to gain by pretending he didn’t understand what was going on? For the first time in this whole situation, Harry felt pity crawl up his throat. Tom, this Tom, had been kept in the dark. He didn’t have a clue what was happening. 

That was okay. Neither did Harry. But he did know that he needed to find the sixth item if he wanted answers from the only one who had them: the real Tom. 

“I’m not following you,” he told Tom quietly, trying to make him understand, “this place isn’t real. You aren’t real.”

Tom gazed at him with an inscrutable expression for a long, long moment. The lights flickered, but when they stilled, the rest of the illusion flickered away, to reveal the real room. Bones. The room was stacked with bones: human too, no doubt. Harry’s stomach flipped nauseatingly at the sight. Piles and piles of bones, and it was quite evident, from the still inscrutable expression on Tom’s face, that he couldn’t see them. A proud boy, believing in the illusion of riches while he dressed in rags. The Emperor’s New Clothes. Of course.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Harry,” Tom murmured, and the grip on his wrist slid until they were holding hands. Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to break away just then. “Of course this is real. Of course I’m real. I’m a king in this place: and so are you.”

Harry wanted to laugh, because this Voldemort-resembling Tom was twelve years old and the furthest away from a king that one could be, but instead thought he might cry if he laughed, so he didn’t. He thought he might cry because he understood something now, something intrinsic about Tom that he couldn’t quite boil down to a single coherent thought, but that opened his eyes wide to the other boy. A weight formed in the pocket of the bloodied robe he wore, and Harry knew instinctively that it was a basilisk tooth. He drew it out slowly, and Tom stilled.

“Where’s the diary, Tom?” He asked quietly.

Tom sneered, but there was masked panic on his face. “You’re not going to destroy me.”

Harry stepped forwards. The other, proving his point, stepped back. If this Tom was real, he would have stood his ground.

“Won’t I?”

If this Tom was real, he would have known Harry never made a threat he didn’t mean. He narrowed his eyes. “No,” Tom said, and there was too much pride in his voice to be the real Tom, “you won’t.”

Yes, he would.

Harry took a step forward, and Tom took another step back. Stalemate, or so it seemed. Or so it should have been. But Harry had control over this situation far more than Tom did.

“Wake up, Tom,” Harry said quietly, “stop playing games. Give me the diary.”

Tom’s illusion flickered, but it was pointless to hold now. The expression on his face was almost frightened - if Tom had ever worn such a human expression. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why are you doing this?”

The answer came from Tom fast. “Why are you?”

His eyes were fixed on the fang in Harry’s hand. For a moment, Harry felt genuinely sorry for him. This Tom, as all Toms, was an asshole, but this Tom, unlike the real Tom, couldn’t see what was going on. All he knew was that Harry was holding one of the only weapons in the world that could potentially kill him, and that he was going to die. And there was nothing he could do to stop that.

“Tom.” There was a note of pleading in Harry’s voice now. “The diary. Please.” I don’t want to hurt you, he didn’t say, because he didn’t know if that was true or not. Tom was silent. And then—

“You have to stab me with it,” he said, plainly, so plainly that Harry assumed he’d misheard. “To find the diary, you have to stab me. And I can’t let you do that, Harry.”  
It was Tom’s turn to step forwards, and Harry’s to step back. There was suddenly a familiar gleam in Tom’s eyes, an awfully familiar gleam of red that he didn’t appreciate at all. It spelled out danger and Tom beginning to move towards him didn’t dispel that either.

Harry had killed once before, and that had been a mistake. He didn’t want to kill again, even if it was Tom. Especially if it was Tom. But it didn’t seem like he had a choice. The basilisk fang was heavy in his hand, heavier than it should be, and Harry clenched his jaw tightly.

And when Tom got close enough, he stabbed. The Slytherin didn’t even have time to react. His eyes met Harry’s, a sort of horrified understanding finally dawning in them, and then he disappeared, leaving Harry alone and shaken and with a diary where a boy had once stood. It was completely intact. 

Picking it up, shakily, he tucked it into his pocket, alongside the goblet, heart heavy. Tom’s illusions were breaking apart — it was very clear to Harry more than ever that Tom’s control was slipping, emotions fighting through as Harry got closer and closer to winning this game. 

“Harry!”

His heart skipped a beat. The room around him was beginning to fade, ink seeping from the walls and bones crumbling to dust, falling apart even before he’d left it. But that voice…… he’d only ever heard it scream his name in fear. Never call on it so brightly, so…

“Harry, breakfast is ready!”

So motherly. Harry blinked back tears, and noted the door forming in front of him, slowly, silently. A white door, covered with moving photos of blurry people Harry’s poor eyesight couldn’t quite make out, but could imagine. The voice shouting on him wasn’t unfamiliar, after all. The photos got clearer as he took step after trembling step towards them: his mother and father, holding a baby in their arms. His godfather, throwing a toddler up in the air with delight. Remus, reading to a black haired child who gazed up at him with adoration.

A photo of Harry and Tom at platform nine and three quarters. Photo-Harry was beaming, hair unruly and wild, while Tom stood quietly by his side, looking very much content like he never had before.

Harry’s heart ached all of a sudden, even as he reached out to peel the photo from the wall. The expression on Photo-Tom’s face was tender when he looked at Photo-Harry, young as they clearly were — thirteen, maybe fourteen at a push. Merlin, if only. If only. There was a knock at the door, and when he glanced from the photo to the door to the photo again, it was crumbling to dust in his hand, dust turning to ink that trickling aimlessly through his fingers.

“Harry Potter, if you don’t get out of bed for breakfast right now, I’ll test out this new hex on you that I’ve been designing, whether you’re my son or not!”

And Harry woke up in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I really wanted to end this fic like "Harry realised it was a dream and lived the rest of his life happily with Tom", but alas, I can't, because we have one fairytale left and three more chapters to go! Tom's emotions are really begin to overpower now, but he's got one last trick up his sleeve that he hopes will keep Harry preoccupied for the time being. Will he succeed? Who knows! (Me. I know.)
> 
> In any case, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Feel free to leave a kudos and comment if you did. What fairytale do you think is next? What do you think will happen at the end for our hero and Tom?
> 
> See you soon in the next chapter!  
> Nox.


	7. vii. envy / broken things and stolen voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which harry is given the perfect life, but still he is not satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo boy, this chapter was super emotional to write!! I had the most fun writing this one, and teared up writing the bit at the beginning. Harry really goes through it in this chapter, and, ahh!! That's the last sin done!! Now it's just two chapters to go, and the truth will be revealed in them!!
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it, and feel free to leave a kudos/comment if you did!

This…. couldn’t have all been a dream, could it? Harry felt fuzzy, disorientated and sleep-dazed. How long had he been asleep? 

Movement beside him made Harry tense, but when he opened his eyes, he found, to his relief, that Tom was there. Normal Tom, without black button eyes or skeletal features or fairy tales: just Tom Riddle — his friend, rival, enemy and boyfriend, staring at him fondly with a trace of exasperation in his gaze. 

**_Were you really going to sleep all day? Typical Potter behaviour._ **

Harry blinked. Tom’s mouth hasn’t moved, and yet his voice filled the room perfectly normally. No. Not the room. It filled his  _ head. _

“Tom?” Harry lifted one hand, not to go to Tom, but to check for the diadem on his head. There was nothing. Did that mean it had all been a dream, or that the test was yet to come? “What’s going—”

And before he could finish his sentence, he was attacked. The only warning he got was his bedroom door opening, a figure lurking behind it with their wand out, before a spell was aimed his way and Harry threw himself off the bed, pushing Tom out the way too. 

_ Kill the spare _ echoed in his ears. He would not let someone else die on his watch. Rolling, before springing to his feet, Harry didn’t even need to search for his wand before calling out a spell.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The intruder at the door hadn’t seemed to expect retaliation while Harry was half asleep and wandless, and was caught off guard by the spell, falling to the floor motionless. Heart racing, Harry didn’t even look at them, rushing to Tom and getting him off the floor.

“Merlin, are you okay?”

But Tom’s shoulders were shaking with contained laughter, face flushed in a way Harry hadn’t seen in months, bright eyed and merry, and he was pointing to the figure. Harry turned around, heart sinking. 

It was  _ Sirius.  _ Harry’s heart squeezed painfully, and all he could do for the longest moment was gape at his godfather, wordless in shock. 

This had to be a dream. This  _ had _ to be. “Sirius?” His voice wobbled.

Footsteps came running, before more laughter. Harry took a step back from the door, suddenly incredibly uncertain about everything. Meeting Tom’s eyes, he saw no trace of malice or cruelty. Only amusement at Harry’s behaviour from before. 

“Merlin, Padfoot, taken down by a sixteen year old? You’re really slipping in your old age!”

He knew that voice. A shiver that was half horror and half anticipation tingled down his spine in a painfully nostalgic manner. His father was dead. So who was that voice coming from? 

A mutter of a counter spell, and the intruder - who Harry could now see painfully obviously to be Sirius - leapt to his feet, flushed with embarrassment from being taken down so easily. Harry could only stare as his godfather turned to face him with playful betrayal in his eyes.

“I wasn’t expecting him to throw a silent spell at me after just waking up,” he complained, looking wounded. “I didn’t even know he  _ knew _ silent spells. He’s sixteen.”

Another figure appeared at the door - James Potter himself, looking for all his age like he’d never been younger or more lively. His father just looked like an older version of him, Harry noted painfully, something thick catching in his throat. James had to be about thirty five by now, thirty five, thirty six - and so did Sirius. 

Unable to help himself, Harry burst into tears, burying his head in his hands in humiliation and disbelief. How often had he dreamed of this, as a child? How often had he dreamed of this, even to this day?

“Harry?” And then he was being wrapped in a hug, arms that he knew belonged to his father holding him tight. “Hey, it’s okay. You know Sirius is just being dramatic. What’s wrong?”

And staring up into his dad’s concerned gaze, tearful and exhausted, Harry could only reply with, “I had nightmares.” What else could he say? He couldn’t tell any of them the truth - that he’d watched them die, that he’d been stuck in a horrible set of fairy tales, that he knew none of this was actually real. They’d think he was mad. Merlin, he half thought he was going mad. 

And despite knowing he shouldn’t indulge himself in this make-believe fantasy, he couldn’t help but hug his dad back, tightly, and hoping that this wasn’t a dream he had to wake up from. This wasn’t fair. He wanted his family.

“I guess seeing Sirius’ ugly mug so soon after a nightmare couldn’t have helped,” James murmured, ignoring Sirius’ half hearted protests, “do you want to talk about it? It helps.”

Harry met his gaze again, that was so fatherly and worried, and wiped his eyes, shaking his head. “Nah,” he murmured, “it’s okay. It was just a dream. Nothing real.”

Before James could question him further, another voice sounded at the door, the one from just before he’d woken up. 

“I wasn’t joking about the hex, you know-” Lily Potter cut herself off, face melting at the sight of her husband and son hugging. “Harry? Are you okay?”

“Better than okay.” He meant it, in a way. This life was better than okay. It was everything he’d ever dreamed of. “Just nightmares. And seeing Sirius’ face.”

Lily smiled, and it was so mischievous in a way Harry only associated with Fred or George that it made him tear up again. “He is ugly,” she agreed, coming over to run her hands through his hair. Closing his eyes, Harry felt nothing but peace - something he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. “I can’t blame you for that, baby. Are you going to be alright?”

She planted a kiss to his forehead, right over where his scar was - or should have been, because his skin felt smooth there, completely so. “I’ll be fine,” he said, wiping away tears roughly. “As long as I don’t have to see it again.”

“I can see when I’m not wanted,” Sirius sighed dramatically, but there was soft concern in his gaze, despite the act, “I’ll just have to go and comfort eat my way through all the pancakes then, won’t I?” And he left the room, leaving Harry along with his parents for some time - and Tom.

As soon as James and Lily let him go, the first thing Harry did was turn around to face Tom, humiliated at having cried in front of him in his stupid games. But Tom did not look mocking, or sneering, or bored, as he usually did when Harry began displaying emotion he didn’t understand. Instead, there was alarm and tender worry in his face, more human than anything he’d ever displayed before.

What was Tom’s game here? Nothing had attacked him yet, nothing was clear. In theory, shouldn’t that be all of the Horcruxes destroyed? But there had been one sin left -  _ envy. _ And if Tom’s game was to make Harry envious of the life he’d never had, well, he was succeeding. Incredibly, painfully well.

“I’m going to be okay,” he told his parents, turning back to them with a smile that was far softer than it should have been. “I’ll come for breakfast in a minute, yeah?”

Lily pressed one last kiss to his forehead, James ruffled his hair, before they stepped back.

“We’ll save you some pancakes,” his father told him, “Merlin knows Sirius won’t. See you both in a bit.”

And with that, they left the room, just as Harry’s knees gave out from under him. He sat down on the bed very suddenly, and let out a deep breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, hiding his face in his hands. This was the hardest one yet. And he didn’t even know what he was looking for yet. Was there another Horcrux that he was missing?

…...In theory, he had a feeling he knew what it was. His hand brushed over his forehead, where his scar was oddly missing.  _ And the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal…. _

Merlin, how was he supposed to get the final Horcrux when he himself was the Horcrux?

Strong hands caught his own, and Harry looked up to see Tom kneeling in front of him, expression light and loving.  **_Are you alright?_ ** He asked, and once again, Harry could hear him only inside his head.

“Why can’t you speak?” He murmured. Tom looked confused.

**_The curse, remember? Grindelwald’s curse?_ **

Grindelwald…? As in the Dark Lord from Tom’s time? What year was this? Harry’s struggle to understand must have shown on his face, because Tom frowned, sitting beside him on the bed. He didn’t let go of his hand. 

**_Don’t you remember? I’m the Chosen One, that Grindelwald tried to destroy as a child? I killed him, to keep us all safe, to save the Wizarding World, but he took my voice before I could. You’re the only one able to hear me, and I live here because I was an orphan and we date. Do you remember now?_ **

Harry blinked. And suddenly, the pieces fell into place. His expression cleared. “How could I forget?” He replied, and Tom looked relieved. 

**_That nightmare must have been an awful one._ **

“You have no idea,” he replied, “you were a right bastard in it, honestly.” Pressing a kiss to Tom’s lips, softly, earnestly, he stood up. Their hands remained linked. “Come on. Let’s go get breakfast before Sirius eats everything and then some, yeah?”

  
  


That day was his best dream come true. After breakfast, he and Tom went to the training room to duel, while his parents and Sirius watched in both horror and pride at how well their son faced off against the Chosen One himself, and when the adults left, he and Tom trained in more…..enjoyable ways. Then it was lunch, and Quidditch in the garden, Harry and James versing Sirius and Lily. Tom sat on the picnic blanket under them, alternating between reading his books and watching in cheerful anticipation. Remus came over too, giving Harry a tight hug, and Harry learned he would be their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher that year. After Harry and James won the Quidditch game, Harry spent the rest of the day lounging in Tom’s lap, daydreaming and watching Tom idly spell bubbles and butterflies around them, able to kiss Tom whenever he wanted.

He kissed him a lot that day. 

Insisting on making dinner with Tom that day, Harry spent the rest of their time in the kitchen, laughing as Tom expressed his frustrations over Harry’s ‘Muggle ways’ of cooking. 

**_We don’t need an oven to cook it, we can cast a heating charm on it, it’s far more simple!_ **

“Heating something doesn’t cook it, Tom, don’t be an idiot!”

In the end, they compromised, cooking it and heating it afterwards. Dinner that night was delicious, and his dad took it upon himself to finally forgive Harry for being put into Slytherin.

“You know,” he’d sighed dramatically, “I think that meal earned you my forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?”

“For being put in Slytherin. I’m forgiving you.”

Lily smacked his arm. “James!”

“Dad, that was six years ago. I thought you’d gotten over that in first year!”

“I’m still not over it,” Sirius said mournfully, “all those years of buying you Gryffindor colours, wasted. I’m still in shock, I think.”

“You’re both acting like children,” Lily looked defeated. “Harry, for one, I’m very proud of you being Slytherin. At least you had the brains for it, unlike these two.”

Sirius and James made the exact same offended expression at the same time. “Lily!” Sirius whined. “Come on, I’m hurt! Don’t you remember how smart I am?”

Lily rolled her eyes, while Remus shot him a distinctly unimpressed look. “You set your hair on fire last week.”

“That’s just part of my charm!”

And through the whole of dinner - and dessert, too, a delicious chocolate cake James insisted he’d made, not bought - Tom remained silent, politely so, mirth in his eyes and fondness in his face.

Harry had kissed him again after dinner, and told him he loved him. Tom had replied without hesitation, and had been blissfully happy as Harry led them both into their shared bedroom after hugging everyone else, the door still decorated with old photographs. 

And had remained blissfully unaware until Harry pulled out a steak knife, and held it to Tom’s neck.

Instantly, Tom went still. There was fear in his eyes, so painfully prominent that it made even Harry squirm in guilt. But he held still.  **_Harry? Put down the knife._ ** His voice in his head wavered.

Harry moved the knife fractionally further down his throat, enough that he could feel Tom’s Adam’s Apple. “Tell me how to give you your voice back.”

**_You can’t. What does that even mean? Harry, please, see sense-_ **

“I’m not an idiot, Tom,” Harry laughed, and it came out wretchedly, “I might be oblivious sometimes, but I’m not stupid. I’m not blind. I was doubtful for a long time, heally, I was. But you should have never told me that you love me.” He smiled, the expression stretched tight. “Tom would never admit it, even if it was true. So how do I give you your voice back?”

Tom was silent, long enough that Harry knew he was correct. 

And the laughter from his parents and Sirius and Remus downstairs faded away, leaving only Harry and Tom. 

Harry stared intently at Tom, who looked resigned. It wasn’t a good look on the other Slytherin.  **_I can’t tell you, Harry._ ** Tom sounded genuinely regretful.  **_I had hoped you’d never find out._ **

“I know you did,” Harry agreed. “But I did. This is the Little Mermaid, isn’t it?”

It seemed so obvious now. Tom’s lost voice, this ideal life. How had Ariel gained her voice back? Keeping the knife where it was, Harry brought one hand to his own neck. A thin golden necklace lay there, and when he snapped it off, Tom gasped, slumping like his puppet strings had been cut. 

“I never watched the Little Mermaid,” Harry admitted, dropping the chain on the floor. “But I remember Hermione talking about it one time. She loved Muggle fairy tales. It’s honestly amusing that you do too, despite how much you hate Muggles.”

Tom’s voice was aloud this time, properly aloud. “I don’t hate Muggles,” he murmured, his voice rusty as if he’d forgotten how to speak. A sad, resigned smile tugged at his lips. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter to you. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to stay here.”

Harry stared at him, hard. What was so complicated about understanding? “Would you want to stay here?”

“I would.” Tom swallowed, and Harry removed the blade from his throat.  _ “He  _ would not, but I would. I do. Everything is perfect. Why can’t you like it?”

A noise of frustration left Harry. “Because you’re too perfect.”

And when Tom stared at him, he elaborated, exasperation in his voice. “Something you refuse to understand, is that I love you. Him. Whatever. I don’t want a perfect copy without your flaws! I don’t want you changing to kill Muggles and wizards, and I will die trying to stop you if I have to, but I’m not- Merlin, you’re so out of character like this that it’s scary! It’s frightening, and even if this is the perfect life, you acting like this makes nothing worth it!”

“I’m not out of character,” Tom said, looking offended, and Harry scowled.

“What’s your favourite hobby?”

Tom answered woodenly as if instructed to. “Spending time with you.”

“What’s your plans for the future?”

“Living with you.” Tom didn’t seem to understand what was so wrong with the answers he was giving, even as dread coiled in the pit of Harry’s stomach. 

He asked one last question, painful though it was. “Do you love me?”

“More than anything.”

Tom had never sounded more sincere, and Harry believed him. But it just wasn’t the truth. Tom wasn’t capable of love, not really. Obsession, most definitely, but love? Love that was so simple and pure? He dragged a hand down his face, suddenly tired. 

“Those aren’t real answers. You were created to be perfect for me, but he fucked it all up.” Shoulders slumping, Harry felt strangely disappointed in the real Tom. “I thought he knew me better than that.”

Silence. Tom, the fake Tom in front of him, looked contemplative. And then he smiled, defeated and quiet and unhappy, but accepting.

“I don’t understand in the slightest,” he murmured, “but I suppose I don’t need to. You’re right, I’m not real. I was supposed to be perfect, and I don’t understand why I’m not. He thought this would keep you trapped for sure.” 

“Even the great Tom Riddle is an idiot from time to time,” Harry told him, more to see Tom smile than anything else, and the rueful little human smile he received was just another reminder of how different this Tom was. “But I can’t stay here. Even if I want to.”

“You were supposed to be envious, and that was supposed to trap you here.” Tom quirked an eyebrow. “Care to explain why you’re winning? Because this was supposed to have been perfect. The perfect trap.”

_ The perfect trap. _ Harry swallowed thickly, looking away from Tom for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than he wanted it to be.

“I am envious,” he admitted, “I want this life more than anything else. Not you like this, but the real you - with my parents alive, Sirius alive, Remus alive, to not be the Chosen One. But I’m making the choice to walk away from it.”

It was very clear Tom didn’t understand, so Harry elaborated, because he could, because this Tom deserved to understand. “I’m jealous,” he murmured, and pressed an envious, lingering kiss to Tom’s lips. “I’m jealous, so badly jealous, of the life this Harry could lead. He could have his parents back, a boyfriend that doesn’t try and kill him before breakfast every morning-” He saw Tom’s lips briefly quirk, “-and he could have a normal life. But,” he continued, softer than ever, “I wouldn’t be me if I lived a normal life. You don’t seem to realise, Tom: it’s not a crime to feel jealous. It’s not a crime to feel this way.” Harry shrugged, freely. “But I’m just refusing to act on it. It’s that simple.”

Instead of answering, Tom led him to the door, and opened it, with a sigh. 

It didn’t lead to another room, like he assumed it would. Instead, it led to a steep drop, through clouds to the faint, foggy ground below. Harry stepped back hastily, fear in his eyes. A tower. They were in a tower. 

It was so far to fall.

“If you do this, Harry,” Tom murmured, delicately, “you have to be prepared for what you’ll find him like ahead.”

Harry’s mind spun. “Him?” He asked.

Tom smiled, and Harry was once again reminded that this Tom was not his. “Me,” he replied, with a sigh. “My….. true self. I’m a Horcrux, after all. We all have been. You’ve known that since the beginning.”

Harry realised, with a sinking heart, that this was true. He swallowed dryly. This Tom was his Horcrux, and, merlin, what did that say about him? “Where is he?”

“At the top of the tower.” Tom’s eyes glanced up, and Harry followed them. Above them, outside the door and not so far away, was the peak of the tower - Tom’s self imposed prison, if he had to guess. “Let’s see how much you live up to your status of being Dumbledore’s little light-side lamb, Harry Potter. Find him.”

Harry had to laugh, resignedly. “Dumbledore’s little light-side lamb wouldn’t save the future Dark Lord,” he told Tom, “but I wasn’t the best at that job even in my own timeline. Harry Evans, however, would save him, but not before rubbing it in his stupid face.” He scowled up at the dark swirling sky above the tower to hide the worry eating at his soul. “‘ _ I don’t want to be saved’ _ my ass. Tell the Real Tom that the next time he wants to be saved from himself to just ask me. It’s less dramatic.”

“Tell him yourself,” Fake Tom said, with a sort of open approval Real Tom could never display, “because you’ll see him soon enough.”

And he pushed, sending Harry tumbling out of the window to the ground far below them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! The last of the sins! Tom's plan beginning to unravel at the seams! Now it truly is just Harry against the real Tom - will our hero figure out what's going on with Tom, or will he fail at the last hurdle? Comment if you have any idea what's going to happen next!! :D
> 
> Thank you so much for reading - I hope you enjoyed! More to follow very soon!!


	8. viii. [the past], the present, [the future]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which harry is forced to confront his and tom’s past and the future, but is more concerned about their present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh this took me so long again! Nonetheless, I had a lot of fun writing this one, and showing off some more of Tom and Harry’s relationship! I hope you enjoy this chapter, because I enjoyed writing it, a lot!
> 
> tw. death [mentioned], implied Tom torturing someone, quick mention of child abuse, mentions of a memory looking starved.

Harry woke up cold and alone and at the bottom of a spiral staircase. Body aching, he stumbled to his feet with a groan, wiping at his face with grimy hands and glancing about him as if expecting to be attacked. He  _ was  _ expecting to be attacked: with the events of the fairy tales, not to mention his own future, it was impossible not to be. 

But there were no attacks, no tricks that he could see. No more fairy tales. Just himself, the staircase, and, somewhere above him, Tom. 

Tom…...

Clenching his jaw, Harry took a deep breath, and began to climb. 

It was a lot steeper than it looked initially, and a lot higher than he’d thought. Only when he was in the staircase itself could he see the spirals and spirals above him, as it stretched up into the tower. It was evident that he hadn’t woken up — not yet. If his presence in the tower hadn’t told him that, then the tower itself did: it was impossibly high, even for a tower built with magic. No, this was yet another dream, a fantasy constructed just for him. 

Step, step, step. Harry kept a brisk pace up as he walked, holding on to the bannister to stop himself getting dizzy or misstepping. At some point, his legs would begin to burn, and he would grow tired and weary. But for now? He’d go as well-paced as he could. There was no time to waste. Even if time didn’t seem to move in this place, it did in reality. Wherever that was. 

The last thing he remembered was Hogwarts. He thought deeply about that now, a furrow coming to his brow as he tried to imagine when Tom could have caught him. He’d been walking to the Slytherin dorms from the Common Room after a long night with the Knights of Walpurgis: who, for baby Death Eaters in training, were actually good friends and company — long as he ignored certain things about them, such as their prejudice against Muggles or the time Ronan Lestrange had hexed him in fear after he found him kissing a boy or the way Orion Black’s fingers shook permanently after overexposure to the Cruciatus Curse. In return, they ignored things about him: his scar, for one, despite the curious looks he received for it. 

He’d insisted he could make the journey himself: that much he remembered. Stubbornly rolling his eyes at Zabini’s insistence he take someone with him, he’d said: “What am I, a second year? I can look after myself.”

Harry flushed. Famous last words, apparently, because it didn’t seem like he could. 

That wasn’t fair, actually, because he  _ could  _ look after himself, for the most part. If it hadn’t been for Tom Fucking Riddle interfering, Harry could look after himself just fine. 

If it hadn’t been for Tom Fucking Riddle interfering, Harry wouldn’t be in this situation right now. 

How many floors had he gone up now? Four, five? Less, more? It seemed impossible to tell. Already, the floor below him was dizzyingly far away, but he seemed no closer to the top than he had been before. Harry bit down on his own lip to stop himself crying out with frustration. This was the last puzzle, he knew it. It wasn’t a sin, not in the slightest, but if he could figure out how to get through his last ditch effort by Tom to make him lose, then he’d have won. 

Tom was just out of reach, at the top of this tower. And Merlin, Harry had come all this way already. He couldn’t start to falter and give up now! 

If the positions were reversed, Tom would be at the top by now. That thought alone was enough to make Harry groan, and begin climbing quicker. 

“Although,” he muttered aloud, tower making his voice echo, “if the positions had been reversed, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to trap my  _ boyfriend  _ in a dreamland of fairytales. There’s this thing called  _ communication _ , though clearly the  _ Heir of Slytherin, leader of the Knights, student prodigy  _ Tom Riddle has never heard of it—”

As if to say  _ fuck you,  _ memories started playing around him. 

His own memories, more specifically. 

Harry swore. Antagonising Tom never ended well for him. Why had he expected differently now?

The first memory was one he’d shown Tom unwillingly after a nightmare he’d been woken up from. Perhaps a better term would be _forced:_ the other boy had used Legilimency on him to see what had been causing him such distress in his sleeping hours. Unsurprisingly, though surprisingly to Tom, it was the death of his godfather. 

Harry avoided looking at it as best as he could, kept his eyes fixed carefully on the never ending stairs that wound out in front of him, a spiral that never ceased, but he couldn’t hide his peripheral vision. Nor could he block out the memory from other senses: he could hear Sirius calling out to him, could feel the burn of tears in his throat and eyes as he resisted looking up. If he did, would he be able to stop himself from trying to save Sirius again?

…...Harry kept walking. 

Up and up and up, and soon enough, his legs started to burn. Sirius was still dying below him, above him, all around him, and coupled with that, other memories had started to add themselves into the mix. 

Being chased by Dudley and his gang, a memory he’d accidentally shared with Tom in a duel. 

Almost being kissed by a Dementor, an experience he’d shared with Tom in the Room or Requirement after a panic attack when Tom had mimicked the sensation. 

An orphanage, with one boy beating him up while he sobbed for forgiveness and mercy while two more pinned him down. 

Being attacked by the basilisk in the Chamber: the first memory he’d shared with Tom willingly that had Tom looking at him in an entirely différent light. Harry was forced to duck under attacks from a memory-Basilisk that was entirely fake, but also entirely life size, and subsequently terrifying. As he ducked under that, he sped up away from the Dementor ghosting towards him only steps behind, ignored the taunts from Dudley, ignored the shouts of ‘freak’ from the boys at the orphan—

He had never been to an orphanage. 

The realisation almost stopped him short, but Harry kept moving, automatically more than anything else, even as he drew a sharp breath in. He had never been to an orphanage, to visit or to live, so whose memory was that, it not his? The answer was obvious, and Harry wanted to sob in relief and frustration. Tom. It was Tom’s memory, and a slip-up on the other boy’s part to let this memory appear. It meant he was tiring. 

And Merlin, no wonder. How much magic had it taken to  _ create  _ all this? How much effort, how much time? Harry doubted any other student could have achieved this — he doubted many teachers could have either, in his time or Tom’s time. This was an incredible display of power, and showed Harry that Tom, cold, uncaring, callous Tom, was doing all this for a reason. 

Salazar knew he wouldn’t waste his magic on him otherwise. 

The top of the stairs looked closer now, if only fractionally. Harry’s hope increased exponentially, and despite the ache in his legs, began to take the stairs two at a time, eager to get closer. The memories were easier to block out, even as more appeared around him. The first time his uncle had slapped him. Dumbledore ignoring him for a year. Arthur Weasley being attacked by Nagini. Ginny almost dying in the Chamber. 

The death of his parents. 

Everything else seemed to slow as Harry watched his mother die in front of him, feeling agonisingly detached from the situation. James Potter already lay below her, unmoving as she collapsed next to him, eyes fixed unseeingly on Harry. 

His breath caught, and he took a step back, promptly bumping into a memory figure that passed right through him and left him shivering and exposed. The figure wore all black, face concealed with a robe and hold, but the odd light from the tower walls let Harry see who it was quite easily. Not that he didn’t know already. It was the same figure that haunted his dreams almost every night, the same figure who was suddenly in every memory around him, the same figure who he’d been living with and sharing a room with for the past year. 

Tom Riddle. Voldemort. 

Harry dispelled his last thought. No. Voldemort wasn’t his Tom. Not yet. Nor would he ever be, if Harry has anything to do with it. 

“Get out of my way,” he hissed at Voldemort, who only sneered and drew his wand. The Voldemorts around him, previously engaged in memories, turned and did the same thing, red eyes fixated on him from all angles. His voice echoed nauseatingly, and Harry felt painfully, bitingly exposed without his wand. 

_ Harry Potter….. the boy who lived….. come to die…. _

Voldemort — all of them — raised his wand, but Harry felt no fear in that moment, because behind the Voldemort in front of him, sat a fourteen year old Tom Riddle clutching a book about Dark Magic and looking half amused, half contemptuous. 

_ “How pathetic,” _ he said, standing up and beckoning for Harry to follow,  _ “imagine not being able to kill a baby. Imagine trying to kill a baby.”  _

Voldemort was saying something, but Harry blocked him out, and followed Tom’s beckon. Walking through a memory was cold and uncomfortable and made him screw up his face in disgust, but he did it, and when he turned back around, Voldemort and the bodies of his parents were gone. 

_ “Come on,”  _ Memory-Tom urged, and Harry obliged. They ran up steps and steps — or rather, Harry did, while Tom ghosted up ahead of him smoothly. The memories around them had changed: no longer were they just his memories, but now they were a mix between his and Tom’s.

Saving Sirius at the Shrieking Shack. 

_ His first bit of Dark Magic. _

Hermione being Petrified.

_ Killing Myrtle. _

Destroying a Horcrux and almost dying.

_ Creating a Horcrux and almost dying. _

His cupboard under the stairs.

_ The orphanage. _

**Finding out they were wizards.**

**Opening the Chamber.**

**Finding each other.**

**Finding each other.**

**Fin—**

Harry arrived at the top of the staircase and the memory of fourteen year old Tom Riddle disappeared. The memories around him were silenced as he climbed the final stair, pausing at the sight in front of him. A rich brown door, furnished with a golden lock and not much more. And in front of that door, tossing a golden key into the air and catching it, was a younger Tom Riddle. 

He looked so different as a child. Gone was the angled face and sharp bone structure. This Tom looked ill, too gaunt and too hungry — Harry supposed growing up in an orphanage in the Blitz in the 1940s didn’t lend itself to good health. He was small, a ghost only lit by the golden light coming from the key. 

“Hi,” Harry said quietly, softly, and the younger Tom looked up, key in hand. 

“You’re Harry Evans,” he replied, and the Cockney in his voice was so prominent and thick that Harry had to suppress a smile. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Harry frowned. “You have?” How unexpected. 

Tom made a considering noise, staying cross-legged on the ground as Harry approached carefully. “Well, he hasn’t. But I have. He likes to try and underestimate you. It makes him feel better.”

Harry didn’t doubt for a moment that he was talking about his older self, the real Tom. He arched an eyebrow. “Don’t I know it,” he murmured, wryly. “Will you let me see him?”

“Of course I will.” Younger Tom looked affronted, an odd expression to see on such a youthful face. “I know it's necessary. Even if I’ll stop existing.” He paused, looking up at Harry. “Will it hurt, to stop existing?”

Harry floundered. This was not a conversation he was equipped for. Younger Tom seemed to note this, for he sighed, getting to his feet and rolling his eyes. 

“I suppose you wouldn’t know. You still exist after all.” He held the key out for Harry to take, and when he was slow, grabbed Harry’s hand and shoved the key into it. “Normally, I would make this harder, but I’m bored of this. Besides—” Younger Tom shot Harry a briefly mistrustful look, “I’m eleven and five foot one. I’m not going to be able to do much about it if you want to get past me.”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Harry assured him, and he meant it. “I just want to talk to him. I want to end this.”

Younger Tom crossed his arms. “Obviously. You’ve come this far, haven’t you? Only the great Harry Evans could manage that. Or me, of course.”

“Of course.” Harry gazed down at the key in his hand, before glancing to Younger Tom again. He seemed willing to give away information freely enough.... “What is this place, anyway? Do you know?”

“Yes, I know.” Younger-Tom rolled his eyes. “It’s a metaphor. Though maybe you don’t know what that means, because you’re quite stupid.”

“I know what a metaphor is! A metaphor for what?”

Younger Tom shot him a dry look that made Harry understand immediately.

“No.” He shook his head. “Don’t be stupid.”

“He’s locked himself in a tower to escape his one true love, or something,” the other said, looking quite bored and disgusted with his older self, “frankly, I like to think  _ he’s  _ the stupid one, not me. I would never do something so non-wizard.”

_ Not yet,  _ Harry thought,  _ but you might one day.  _ Clearing his throat, he stepped forwards. “I didn’t think Rapunzel was well known yet. Not in the 1900s.”

“Well, you thought wrong.” Younger Tom stepped aside to allow him to pass, but Harry could feel his eyes on him as he made his way to the door. “But I think that’s the least of your problems right now.” 

He was right. Harry stared at the door, eyes narrowing. Beyond it, Tom was somewhere, scheming, desperate, hurting. And Harry was about to confront him. Taking a breath and steeling himself, he inserted the key into the lock.

“Wait!” 

Younger Tom looked scared when he turned back round, and Harry felt briefly guilty. “I have to do this,” he said gently, “I promise I won’t hurt him. I promise.”

“I know.” The boy in front of him didn’t meet his eyes. “I have a request.”

“Anything.” Well. Almost anything, but he didn’t need to voice that. 

Younger Tom forced his gaze up, and pressed his lips together for a moment. 

“Don’t let us become Voldemort. Don’t let us die.”

Harry could only stare at him, for a long, long moment, before something clicked into place. “I promise to try my best,” he told Younger Tom, who gazed at him silently, before disappearing.

The whole tower shook, and as it did so, the key in Harry’s hand twisted itself to unlock the door. And as it did so, it revealed a large circular room that overlooked clouds and space, swirling constellations and stars around them. It was beautiful, but Harry barely had eyes for it, rushing into the room in dismay.

Because in the middle of the room was Tom Riddle, his sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, always worry, and he was collapsed on the floor unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun! What happened to Tom? Only time will tell — by that I mean you gotta wait for the next chapter!  
> I can’t believe how close we are to the end of this fic. Your comments and kudos always inspire me, so feel free to leave some if you wish!! :D  
> Any predictions for the end? Why has Tom been doing this? What is his endgame? Will Harry succeed?  
> Find out tomorrow or the day after!  
> Thanks for reading!!


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